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train.’
    â€˜I don’t want no druggies in ’ere,’ said the driver.
    â€˜I’m not on drugs and I’ll pay you double the fare if you take me where I want to go.’
    He still looked dubious and she didn’t blame him. He must think she was a nutter, which was true. She just wasn’t a drugged-up nutter.
    â€˜Triple the fare?’ she offered, hoping Rowena could do without rent that week.
    â€˜Okay. Done.’
    The cab roared away from the curb, shooting her backwards against the seat. As they queued at the lights on St. Giles, the driver called back through the grille, ‘Where exactly are we going that’s so important?’
    She gripped her seat and said it out loud so there could be absolutely no mistake.
    â€˜St. Mark’s church, Steeple Fritton. I’m late for a wedding.’

Chapter 6
    The one thing Carrie had clung to after Huw had called off their wedding was the fact that at least there wasn’t another woman involved. It had been the first thing she’d asked that terrible night—and the first thing he’d denied. After the initial aggression, he’d seemed so horrified, so hurt, that even in the midst of her pain and rage, she’d believed him. Something in the saner recesses of her mind had told her that if he’d had the courage to call off the wedding, he’d have had the courage to tell her the real reason why.
    The shock had literally knocked her off her feet. She was overwhelmed with disbelief at what had happened. Then came the grief, laced with anger at what he’d done to her. She never wanted to see him again; she’d give anything to have him back. He’d change his mind; she wouldn’t see him again if he was the last man on earth.
    The night he’d told her they were splitting up, she kept asking herself why. She’d kept screaming the word at him over and over but got a hundred versions of the same answer. He felt trapped. He felt suffocated. They’d never known any other life. The fact that it was Huw who’d begged her to marry him made no difference. Nothing could change the way he felt and that was that. Goodbye and thanks very much. He’d told her she could stay at the farmhouse, but she’d rather have walked over red-hot coals.
    That was when Rowena had arrived.
    Two weeks later, Carrie had finally found the courage to text him and arrange to collect her stuff from the farm—on the condition that Huw stayed out of the house until she’d finished.
    Even on a raw March day, Packley Farm had held a strange kind of beauty. The farmhouse was largely Victorian, though parts of it were much older. It straggled across the yard with odd wings protruding here and there as generations of Brigstockes had added their own mark. Inside, the rooms were just as unconventional, shooting off landings unexpectedly, some reached by little half-flights of stairs. She’d adored it from the first day that Huw had taken her home.
    As usual, the farmhouse door hadn’t been locked, and as she pushed her way inside, feeling as though she was burgling her own home, something furry brushed against her legs.
    â€˜Macavity.’
    Tilting his face up, the farm cat turned his green gaze on her before strolling to the food cupboard and twitching his tail hopefully. Fighting back the tears, she ran her hand along his coat and whispered, ‘I’d love to take you with me, but Rowena’s allergic to cats, and to be honest, Mac, I think you’d be allergic to Rowena.’
    Macavity wasn’t the kind of cat you could scoop up and cuddle, so she filled his bowl with fishy biscuits and straightened up, knowing she was only putting off the next task: clearing out the bedroom.
    Grabbing her cardboard box, she trudged up the stairs, hearing every familiar creak. The beamed door to their bedroom had been padded with foam to save the heads of several generations of Brigstocke men. The latch